Seventh-Inning Stretch

Frank Halloran was an honest, hardworking man. He’d built a good life for himself in Racine, Wisconsin. He had a beautiful wife, and three wonderful kids. A son in the Navy and two daughters at the University of Wisconsin. A nice house. A string of loyal dogs.

He worked thirty hours a week at the carburetor factory, volunteered as an usher at his presbyterian church, and for the past three years, he’d moonlit as an umpire for the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League.

Frank had always been passionate about baseball. As a boy, he’d played on his high school team. He’d been something of a star right fielder and had plans to play in college, actually, until a knee injury had put an end to all of that. This umpiring had proved to be a good way for him to relive his glory days, in the way old men were so eager to do.

And Gladys happened to think he looked handsome in the uniform, which didn’t hurt.

She came over to straighten his tie just as soon as he entered the kitchen, on the hunt for a cold drink before he set off for the day.

“Game this afternoon, dear?” she asked, and Frank nodded dutifully.

“Sure is. You think you could have supper ready around six?”

“Of course,” she answered pleasantly, and Frank bent to peck her on the lips. He’d stop and pick her up something nice on the way home, he decided, if he had the time.

“Thanks,” he responded, and made his way over to the fridge. He paused to check his game schedule, and frowned when he saw the teams listed.

“Better make it seven, honey,” he announced, disappointed. “Rockford’s playing today.”

Gladys hummed sympathetically. She knew, from all the times her husband had complained to her, how late the games always seemed to run whenever the Illinois Peaches were in town. 

Too much celebrating, he’d explained to her. Four or five minutes of hugging, sometimes, for every run batted in. Some of the players were worse than others, it seemed like. Once, their coach had even had to come over and tap them on the shoulders to break things up.

Frank understood a little collegiality here and there, of course, but he had a duty, as umpire, to keep the game moving along. He would think that they might respect his authority to keep the game moving along, but so far he hadn’t had the luck. 

Instead, it seemed like they didn’t even notice he was there. He’d discussed the matter over beers a few times with Earl from Kenosha, and it turned out he had the same problem.

Nothing to do, he supposed, except postpone his dinner.

Gladys came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder kindly.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she promised him. “I’ll take good notes for you on Mr. District Attorney.”

Frank steered his car into the Post Office lot and parked it carefully away from both the drive and the pull-up mailbox. It was a 1937 LaSalle series 37-50, candy-apple red and in mint condition, and he was rather proud of it, even if it wasn’t the fanciest car on the block.

Parking it here, rather than at the stadium a few blocks away, was probably overly cautious, and he was glad that Gladys wasn’t here to see him being so precious over what she referred to as his “special toy”, and yet the short walk seemed more than worth it to him, for the safety it ensured.

He couldn’t prove it, and he felt crazy to say it, but the last two times he’d walked a player batting against Rockford, he’d found his car scratched afterwards. Once on the bumper, and then the second time, a wide gash on the passenger side door.

It’d cost him an arm and a leg at the body shop to get the damage repaired and painted over, and a week riding the bus.

He knew logically there was no correlation between the ballgames and his poor, unlucky automobile. 

And yet, why take the chance?

Some things, it was just better to be safe than sorry.

Frank hurried down the stadium hallway, headed towards the office, which was positioned between the home team and the visitor’s locker room. He could already hear the hustle and bustle of the players getting ready, and he realized his alternative parking spot had cost him some important time. He still needed to check in with the league official before he could hit the field, and he didn’t want to keep him waiting for too long.

He rounded the corner at speed and nearly missed the two players, sequestered away in a nook in the hallway where some drinking fountains were positioned, extricating themselves out of what looked like a rather tight embrace.

It reminded Frank quite a bit of the sleepovers his daughters would have with their school friends, back when they were still living at home. They’d spend hours and hours doing each other’s hair, and yet to Frank, it always ended up looking exactly the same as when they’d started out.

“Afternoon, ladies,” he greeted politely, tipping the brim of his cap.

Number 6 cleared her throat, and then said to him stiffly,

“Howdy, Frank.” 

Frank smiled warmly. Must be pre-game jitters they had. Number 7 was still staring at him, wide-eyed. He said to her,

“Looks like you’re a little wet, there.” He nodded towards the back of her baseball dress, a term he was perfectly comfortable using as a progressive, modern man. 

She was propped up on the porcelain edge of the drinking fountain, and they must’ve leaned up against the activator because he could see where the water had splashed against her back, soaking the fabric clean through. 

At his words, she whipped around to inspect her outfit, and then quickly hopped down to stand, if possible, tucked even further into the nook. These kids. A little sense of competitiveness was a good thing, but they had to know this was just a game!

Number 6 cleared her throat again, and gave a stilted sort of salute, and said firmly,

“As you were, Frank.”

Frank chucked, kindly. Clearly some top secret baseball strategizing was about to go down, and he didn’t intend to intrude on that. 

“Alright then, Miss Corbell, Miss González. I’ll see you two out on the field.” 

He tipped his hat again and walked off, whistling to himself. He sure hoped Gladys didn’t forget to take down the Voice of Law monologue. Those were his favorite part.